


Sherlollipops - Like Crack

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock discovers an addiction he never realized Molly had. One that could conceivably (pun intended) change their lives forever. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Like Crack

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to broomclosetkink...she knows why! Also, to prove I'm not a heartless bitch who only likes to torture Molly.

It starts out innocently enough. Sherlock and Molly are strolling through some park or other near St. Bart's on her lunch break. He is trying (unsuccessfully) to convince her to take the remainder of the day off by feigning illness so they can spend more time together (which Molly accurately and laughingly points out, while telling him "No," is his code for "I'm bored and I want to have sex") when they pass a young couple pushing a pram.

More accurately, the young mother (twenty-three or twenty-four, former smoker who still sneaks a fag now and then, blonde hair only forty-five percent likely to be natural) is pushing the pram, while the father (two years older than she, Dominican or Puerto Rican judging by his skin tone and accent, they most likely met on the cruise ship he worked on before settling in London to work at a butcher's shop) is walking slightly beside the pram, peering down constantly and fretting over the arrangement of the infant's blankets.

They stop just as Molly and Sherlock are about to pass them, and Molly takes the opportunity to lean down and coo over the baby, or what little of her (him? Impossible to tell at this age, can't be more than three months old) beneath the blankets and bonnets, not to mention the enormous pacifier hiding a great deal of his (or her) face. Sherlock is about to say something derogatory or insulting – he is sure his words will be decried as such no matter how well-meaning – when the young mother offers to let Molly hold her (ah, a girl, mystery, such as it is, solved).

Molly stutters and stammers the way she used to whenever he came into the lab the first year they knew each other (and Sherlock studiously ignores how jealous he is that someone else can bring her to such a state) but eagerly holds out her arms and cradles the newborn enthusiastically. Sherlock is going to say something he knows will be taken poorly, about how idiotic it is to let a complete stranger handle your offspring even in a public venue, but Molly glances over at him and frowns and he lets the words die on his lips.

He considers deleting the incident from his mind palace, but leaves it intact; it involves Molly, after all, and he never deletes anything about her – never has, from the very beginning. He should have realized how important she was to him based on that fact alone, but even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes is not above deliberately ignoring the obvious, especially when it makes him uncomfortable. He does not, however, revisit that particular memory until the next incident.

One of her coworkers at St. Bart's is returning to work after a six-month maternity absence. It is pure ill timing on Sherlock's part that he arrives with DI Lestrade just as a mob of cooing and giggling women have descended on the morgue to greet the new arrival before the mother heads to the hospital creche. Molly, he notes with dismay, is right in the thick of things, tickling the baby (again, sex unknown, although he has a vague idea that the pink bonnet indicates a female) beneath the chin and grinning like a lunatic when (she?) makes some kind of noise.

It is a pleasant noise, he will grant that much; not a grunt or a cry or a screech, but he is still put off by the sight of Molly showing so much enthusiasm for a baby – for the second time in less than a month, part of his mind notes. Good Lord, are babies like crack to her? How could he have never noticed this addiction before? He feels a faint sense of alarm at the thought.

Lestrade doesn't help; he grins and nudges Sherlock in the ribs. "Giving you any ideas, mate?"

The look Sherlock bestows upon him is eloquent, but Lestrade's grin doesn't fade until the crowd has dispersed and they are left alone with Molly and the body of Mr. Henderson, whom they have come to examine.

Once again, nothing is said; once again, Sherlock assumes Molly was simply caught up in the emotions of the moment and concludes that he was overreacting; simply because he is seeing a side to his pathologist that he has never seen before, it doesn't mean anything else about their life together will change.

He doesn't even rethink that opinion when John and Mary announce that they are expecting a month after that. Sherlock had already deduced Mary's condition, of course, but after sharing the information with Molly he had been informed in no uncertain terms that he was not to say anything to John or Mary until they spoke to him about it first. Molly is all squeals of faux-surprise and (real) delight, Sherlock congratulates them (although he hardly sees the point, there are far more reasons not to bring a child into the world than there are to do so) and that appears to be the end of the matter.

Then comes the invite. It arrives in the post three months later, for a baby shower, something called a "Jack and Jill" party, although he's certain he's never heard the term before. But the recipient of the party, Mary Morstan-Watson, is American by birth, so perhaps it is something from across the Pond and therefore hardly worth memorizing.

Molly squeals over the invite, and squeals even more when she reads the description, waving it under Sherlock's nose and insisting he look at it although he's already done so. However, when she reveals to him exactly what a "Jack and Jill" baby shower is, he rapidly loses what little enthusiasm he had for the whole idea – which was strictly based on the idea that he might be able to drag John away from his expectant wife's side for the duration of said party.

It's been difficult to get any time alone with his best friend and former flatmate, mostly because of the ever-expanding size of Mary's waistline. Her due date is still a month away but John acts as if the moment he leaves her side she'll fall into precipitous labor and expire before an ambulance arrives. Molly says it's "touching" and judging by the way she reacts to the invite, Sherlock suspects she wouldn't mind if he were as overly attentive as John.

Well. That won't be happening, for two reasons: One, Molly knew who she was getting involved with when he asked her to move in with him shortly after his return from the dead – exactly who she was getting involved with. He knows all the derogatory terms that people have hurled at him – freak, overgrown man child (a personal favorite, that, mostly because John came up with it and it made him chuckle, still does), selfish – and knows as well how appropriate they are. None of them bother him, although Molly loyally tells off anyone who dares to put him down in front of her. It is only one of the many reasons he has allowed her into his heart.

The second reason she'll never see him acting so potty over her, of course, is that he and Molly won't ever be having children. She knows from first-hand experience how agonizing it is for a parent to lose a child, and he assumes – wrongly, as it will turn out in the near future – that she agrees with his opinion that it simply isn't worth the pain that would be felt if they brought a new life into the world. Yes, she was quite enthusiastic about holding that young woman in the park's baby, but she hasn't said or done anything to make him believe she feels differently than he does about parenthood – dull, too much work with the possibility of too little reward, and irresponsible considering the state of the world in which they live...or has she?

As she continues to excitedly declaim her excitement over the meaning of the blasted party – men and women to attend, really? – he casts his mind back over the past several months, and a hideous conclusion starts to form in his mind.

He cuts her off as she feverishly begins mumbling about the merits of "diaper genies" (whatever those are) and how many nappies one should bring to such an event. "Molly," he says, his voice sharper than he means it to be, but he is feeling quite anxious and simply plows ahead in spite of the alarm in her eyes as they meet his. "We've never discussed...that is to say, you've never given any indication in the past...do you actually want to have a child of your own?" he finally blurts out, unable to find the exact phrasing he wants due, no doubt, to the sudden pounding of his heart indicating a rise in blood pressure.  
Stress. He is feeling stressed, that's all; it's nothing so pedestrian as panic or fear, he tells himself as he awaits her response.

She continues to stare at him for a long pair of minutes, mouth agape until she slowly closes it, then gropes behind her for the nearest chair and drops heavily into it.

When she finally collects herself enough to speak, her words do nothing to reassure him. "Sherlock, you've never even...I didn't think you _wanted_ children!"

"Of course I don't," he replies without thinking, then sees the tears welling in her eyes, watches as she jumps to her feet and rushes out of the room.

Heart sinking, he lowers himself slowly into the chair she's just vacated. Dear. God. She'd kept silent because of his feelings, not her own. How could he have missed it?

More importantly, how can he fix this? They have been in a committed relationship for less than two years, living together for only one of those years, and he has learned through painful experience that Molly running off like that requires one of two responses – either follow and comfort or leave her alone until she is ready to speak to him again.

Unfortunately, what still leaves him baffled is telling the difference between when the first response is merited and when the second is the better choice. So he does what he always does under such circumstances: he reaches for his mobile and texts John.

_Molly upset, what should I do? SH_

The response comes quickly: _Depends. What did you do to upset her? JW_

He fires back a quick explanation of what happened, and John's response is a little slower in coming this time.

Sherlock paces as he waits, glancing frequently at the bedroom door, which Molly slammed shut behind her. It is useless as a clue; she slams the door whether she wants him to follow her or not, another lesson painfully learned.

Finally John responds, and it is clear he has taken the time to consult with Mary before doing so.

_You go to her on bended knee and beg her forgiveness, you insensitive git. Even if you don't want children, if she does – and it sounds like she does – and you want her to stay in your life, then you'd better be prepared to change your mind. Publicly, loudly, and frequently, where she can hear you. Work on looking sincere, if you can manage that much._

Not. Helpful.

Sherlock snorts and tosses the mobile onto the kitchen table, then paces back into the sitting room and  
considers his options.

Fortunately Molly chooses that moment to open the bedroom door and shuffle back into the sitting room, eyes red, a tissue clutched in one hand. "Sorry," she says, and something clicks in Sherlock's mind as he rushes to her side and takes her in his arms.

"No, I'm the one who should be telling you that," he corrects her gently as her head comes to rest on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his chin. "It's something we should have discussed, and not something I should have made assumptions about."

"Sherlock, it's...it's all right," Molly insists, although he knows that, no, it isn't, actually. She looks up at him and gives him a watery smile. "I should have said something as well, but I just assumed...that you knew. That you'd already deduced it."

This discussion needs to be held while they are seated, so he brings her over to the sofa and sits her on his lap, where he can most easily keep his arms around her and meet her eyes without having to duck his head. "Molly," he says, keeping his voice as gentle and (though he loathes the word) loving as he can, "clearly we need to discuss this."

She shakes her head; her eyes are sad and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach he is certain he knows what she is about to say. "No, Sherlock, we don't. I said it was all right and," she takes a deep breath, "I meant it. You don't want children, and it wouldn't be fair to bring a child into our relationship if it's just you humoring me. No child deserves that, a parent that doesn't want it."

Memories of his own childhood flash through his mind; his father's disdain for both him and Mycroft, the way he treated them both making it quite clear, even if the man hadn't come right out and said so, that he'd never wanted children. How hard it was on Mummy – but how fiercely she'd loved them.

Just as fiercely as Molly will love their own children, should they ever have them.

With that realization, striking with the power of a true epiphany, all his reasons for not wanting children suddenly seem very petty, very selfish – and very, very easy to overcome. "If we have children, Molly, you will never have to worry that their father doesn't love them," he tells her, and this time there is no need to remind himself to be gentle, to keep his voice at a soothing register. It comes quite naturally, just as naturally as the words themselves. "I would say I need more time to adjust my thinking," he adds, not bothering to hide his self-directed wonder at how sincerely he means what he is saying, "but I appear to have already done so." Then he smiles at her, a full-on, teeth-baring grin of pure delight. "You know, Molly, I really do think it would be a marvelous idea! How many do you want? When should we start?"

Molly's utter shock at his volte-face is clear, and Sherlock isn't above taking ruthless advantage of such situations. He swoops in for a kiss, waiting with a fair imitation of patience for her to return the kiss. She is easily lifted into his arms and they are halfway to the bedroom before she comes out of her daze and presses a hand to his chest. "Wait, Sherlock, what are you..."

He grins at her. "Isn't it obvious, Molly?" He tuts with mock disappointment. "I know your mind is usually sharper than this, and you don't even have the excuse that hormones are interfering with your thought processes." He continues walking, then deposits her on the bed, not bothering to shut the door behind them; no one is going to walk in on them.

Molly rises to her knees, hands on her hips as she glares at Sherlock, but he can tell there is no true anger behind her expression; if anything, her eyes are shining with suppressed mirth. "Sherlock Holmes, are you telling me that, not only have you decided you want to have children, but you want to have them _right now_?"

He pauses in the process of removing his clothing, hands on the buttons of his royal blue shirt, and gives her a frown that is about as legitimate as her glare, which is rapidly morphing into an appreciative smile. "Molly Hooper, you know very well that once I've made up my mind to do something, I rarely allow any delays – and I certainly don't allow anything to get in my way." He makes a show of stalking over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, opening the shallow drawer, picking up the box of condoms and dropping them into the dustbin.

It is a symbolic gesture at best; Molly is also on birth control pills and it is unlikely she will become pregnant before they are out of her system and she's experienced her next menstrual cycle, but he wants to make himself perfectly clear on this matter: he has changed his mind, come round to her way of thinking, and is not about to back out.

Then he finishes removing his clothing, leaving it to lie on the bedroom floor, kneels on the bed and proceeds to assist Molly, who is moving far too slowly for his liking, in removing hers as well.

They make love, not bothering to turn down the duvet or shut the window blinds, and when they are finished, both more than satisfied, he holds her in his arms and promises to be the best father he can be – and makes her promise to take him to task if she feels he is falling down on the job.

"It's a deal," she murmurs sleepily against his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there before settling herself more comfortably against him and hauling part of the duvet up to cover them. "But," she adds, pulling his head down so they are eye-to-eye, "don't think I've forgotten about the baby shower. We," she points to him and to herself several times to make her point, "are both going."

Then she snuggles down and closes her eyes and pretends not to hear his grumbles of protest.


End file.
